by Stacey Lynn
Chapter 9
Caitlin
You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.
I can’t stop the grin that splits my face as the message pops up on my phone.
I’m considering keeping this app forever and not even dating through it. The compliments I receive daily, cliché as they may be, totally make it worthwhile.
I’m a half second away from swiping left at this message because I am so over the day and this stupid dating app, except for constantly being told I’m pretty. Right as I’m about to, though, Jonas pops into my head.
Tall and sexy and always so darn nice: Jonas’s offer of a movie, so I wouldn’t be spending tonight alone, has had me thinking of him all day, unable to shake why his offer to come over tonight almost made me feel worse than being lied to by Isaac.
The reality is that his offer says it all. To him, I’m just a friend he wanted to cheer up after a bad day.
I should be grateful, right? This is what I wanted with him. Unfortunately, that offer didn’t come with his typical salacious smirk or the hand on my cheek I came to love so much when we were ending up in bed before the first scenes of a movie started.
It’s been six months since I’ve been with a guy and to this day, every time I take matters into my hand—literally—it’s still Jonas I see as I climax. That must end. I’m hung up on a guy who wants something more than I can give, and because he deserves everything he wants, I have to close that chapter. Not only that, but there’s obviously been enough signals for me to recognize the fact that he’s just not that into me.
While PerfectMatch might be an epic fail so far, that doesn’t mean this guy will be. I’m aware enough to realize there are good, decent men in the world. I’m best friends with two of the best of them, Trey and Corbin.
So instead of swiping left and erasing this guy, Logan, from my phone screen and tossing my phone to the table, I click the icon to reply.
That’s very sweet. Thank you. I like your picture too. Play lacrosse often?
It’s a shot of him from the waist up, his lacrosse stick and helmet in one hand and his other propped on his waist. His white shirt is skintight, showing off the ridges of his abs beneath, and his light brown hair is messy like he’s just ripped off the helmet. It’s messy and cute. He might be looking into the sun because he’s squinting, and his smile? It looks like he’s fighting back a roaring laugh.
Logan: Sister took it before a match last summer. You like lacrosse?
His reply comes so quickly, I’m surprised. Surely he can’t be sitting around at seven on a Monday with nothing to do but check his dating app.
Although that’s what I’m doing.
Caitlin: My knowledge of lacrosse involves sticks, balls, and scoring.
I whack my phone against my forehead. Dummy. This isn’t a hookup app, and I’ve forgotten my filter again. If this guy gets the wrong idea, this fail is solely on me.
Logan: I feel like there’s innuendo in there that as a gentleman and a guy with sisters who wouldn’t want a stranger being inappropriate with them online, I’m going to ignore. Although I’m also laughing, so don’t think I have that stick shoved anywhere.
I bark out a laugh so loud I surprise myself. This is almost too sweet. Let’s hope he’s genuine. A rush of relief falls from my lips, and I quickly type.
Caitlin: My apologies. I’ve been told I lack a filter. But truly, I’m more of a football fan. I take it you’re close with your sisters?
Logan: Parents worked a lot and I was around. They’re younger, but yeah, we’re close. You?
And just like that, we leave the innuendo forgotten, and for the next hour, I talk to Logan. I tell him I’m a single child with two parents who worked a lot and that I always wished for a sibling. He sends me more pics when I ask, giving me at least hope he’s not lying to me about who he is. Bonus: When I ask for pics, none of them include his dick.
We talk about his job at an architectural firm, where he’s in advertising and promotions, not design and building, which is sort of a bummer. There’s something about this jock-like, all-American boy, sitting behind a desk with reading glasses, building a prototype of the next great skyscraper, that is attractive.
I tell him about my work with Trey in the tech field, letting him know he’s a good friend. I long ago learned that men don’t think men can be friends with women without emotions or a dick getting involved at least once, and he seems to take it in stride.
Hours go by while we text back and forth. So many in fact that my television screen goes blank and a message pops up.
Yes, Netflix. I’m still here. I click the remote to resume my show even though I’m not paying attention.
Like me, Logan says he’s a born and raised Portlander and thinks studying history is capable of producing comas.
I tease him about being more of a dog person than a cat person when he confesses he has a kitten named Snickers, even though that alone is the cutest thing in the world.
And just when I think he’s going to ask to get together, he shows signs of needing to sign off by saying, Busy day tomorrow at work. Talk more tomorrow night?
Definitely. Logan seems nice. Polite and a gentleman because once he acknowledged my earlier gaffe, there hasn’t been any other comment made.
I toss my phone to the counter and go to the kitchen for a glass of water, and by the time I’ve returned, my app has another message notification.
Assuming it’s Logan, I open it without hesitating, smiling until I see the message from Michael, the guy whose face I still can’t see.
Thinking about you. How was your day?
Well, this is different. So far we haven’t exchanged much more than Star Wars jokes and references to television shows.
Still, my fingers press against my lips and I realize I’m smiling. Such a simple message, but dang, there’s something about this guy.
Caitlin: Binge-watching Netflix. That sums it up.
Michael: Any shows I know?
Caitlin: Not unless you’re into Vampire Diaries.
Michael: Ah. Teenage angst. Damon was better when he turned into a crow and appeared in fog.
He knows it? This guy must have quick Google fingers or something because he knows every single show. Either that or he watches television all day sitting on his mama’s couch while she spoon-feeds him breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I give him the benefit of the doubt: he has a real job. He’s made references to working late nights although the jury is still out on whether he’s a bartender, truck driver, or pimp slash drug dealer.
Except he seems too normal for that one so I’m hoping for the best.
Caitlin: How do you know this?
Michael: Was once wildly into this girl who forced me to watch it. We made it through the first two seasons before I couldn’t take it anymore.
Wildly into a girl? That sounds heavy. And for a moment, I think of Jonas. He once tackled me on his couch, fingers digging into that flesh right inside my hipbone. I squealed so loud, tried bucking him off me while we fought for the remote. He wanted to watch a Hitchcock movie. I’d insisted he try Vampire Diaries. In the end, we’d wound up naked, chests heaving, kisses lingering, and a black television screen.
I chew on the inside of my cheek trying to figure out how to respond to this. We’ve always kept things so light and easy. And “wildly”? I’m stuck on it. What does that even feel like?
A warm shiver rolls through me and I kick off the blanket covering my feet.
I’m still tapping on the screen when he sends another message.
Michael: Hope I didn’t lose you.
Caitlin: You didn’t. I was thinking.
Michael: Heavy stuff?
Caitlin: No. How I can find someone appealing when they’re clearly team Damon over Stefan? It might be a deal breaker.
Michael: How about I give you a couple weeks to think about that?
Weeks? I’m frowning when another message pops up.
Michael: Have some things to take care of that will keep me pretty occupied. Would like to see you when it’s done though, but I’d like to keep talking to you.
Hmm. This is definitely new. Was wildly into a girl. He’s not still with her, is he? Or maybe he’s hung up on her. Regardless, talking to someone who makes me smile and laugh isn’t such a hardship.
Caitlin: Sure. I’d like that.
Michael: Good. Good night, Caitlin.
The green dot next to his profile goes gray, signaling he’s signed off.
I toss my phone to the table and then press my head into my hands.
Two guys. One who seems so open. One who is dragging this out. But isn’t the whole entire point to not rush into anything?
I head back to the kitchen. A glass of water is no longer what I crave. A glass of wine before bed sounds exactly like what I need.
I’m halfway to the kitchen when someone knocks on my door.
Assuming it’s Trey, I head to the door and open it, not bothering to check the peephole.
Which was bad, because Jonas is at my door, uncertainty stamped all over his face, and my face must register something similar.
He shuffles on his feet and holds out a bottle of wine. “Hey. Thought you could use this.”
Chapter 10
Jonas
This is a risk, but one I’m not willing to walk away from out of fear.
I’ve never seen Caitlin so upset before and I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind all day. Eventually, I gave up at work and called Tucker in for a favor to cover for me. He’s got an eight o’clock class tomorrow and it’s going to kick his ass but thankfully, he’s a good enough guy to do it for me.
Earlier, when I offered to come over tonight and hang with her, I’d wanted to slap myself.
Then I saw her cheeks turn pink, like she knew exactly what could possibly happen if we spent time alone together again.
Which is exactly what I want her thinking of, even if it’s not the reason I offered.
Don’t get me wrong…I want it, too. I most definitely want to spend more time reacquainting the palms of my hands and my lips with Caitlin’s curves and the way she tastes. Yet, with her looking so cute right now, it’s taking all my self-control to remember my long-term goal.
I want to win her heart, not only her body.
Her red hair is a frazzled mess, curly and kinky, which means she’s had it in one of her sloppy buns she likes so much at some point during the day or night. Her lips are parted, and her green eyes are bright with surprise.
“What are you doing here?” she asks again.
I’ve already answered, but I step closer to the doorway and raise the bottle of wine in my hands. It’s a Cabernet, one of her favorites. “You had a hard day, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” When she doesn’t respond, I take another small step forward. I’m still far enough out she can slam the door in my face, but while I’m not a betting man, I know Caitlin.
She might love her martinis, but when she’s at home, wine is her weakness.
She steps back, bringing the door with her. “Come in. I’m sorry, I’m just surprised to see you is all.” Her brows pull in. “How did you get in anyway?”
“I stopped at the security desk to call up, but Maurice waved me ahead. Is that okay?”
Technically, she should be bothered by this. Maurice hasn’t seen me in months, and he should do his job better, but I’ve had a handful of conversations with the guy over the years so I assume he figures I’m no large security threat. Still, he’s supposed to announce all visitors.
“Um. Yeah.” She shakes her head in that cute way of hers she has and finally, finally, she smiles at me. It feels like I’ve been waiting hours for it. I have. Months, really. “It’s good.”
She’s still uncertain. I don’t blame her. “Relax, Caitlin. I’m just a friend tonight, wanting to make sure you’re okay and have a couple drinks. Maybe watch a movie or two. It doesn’t have to be strange.”
“Right. A friend.” There’s an odd tone in her voice, but she closes the door behind me, and her smile returns. Brushing a chunk of hair behind her ear, she heads toward the kitchen. I follow her, unable to stop my gaze from dipping to the sway of her slim hips. They’re covered by an overlarge sweatshirt and plaid leggings the colors of Christmas.
A flashback of her dressed in my sweatshirts on chilly mornings hits me hard and fast. Damn, I always loved it when she’d help herself to my closet, my dresser, for T-shirts or pants or sweatshirts like she had the right to scavenge through anything of mine.
She did. She still would. What’s mine is Caitlin’s. Everything I own and everything I am.
“Sorry,” she says, and I jerk my eyes up as she turns around at the kitchen counter. “You’ve thrown me, obviously. I have some beer if you’d like one. I know wine isn’t your favorite.”
It’s not, but fortunately, since Caitlin has good taste in alcohol, the bottle I brought isn’t too bad.
“I’ll share this with you.” I set it down on the counter and grab her electric opener from the corner. Making quick work of the cork, I open the bottle only to realize Caitlin’s standing there, watching me, a glazed expression in her eyes I can’t name.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She blinks like I’ve surprised her, and how that can be I’m completely unsure. I’m standing right in front of her.
“Oh. Nothing, it’s just…nothing.” She waves her hand in the air and spins on her heels, grabbing two wineglasses from the glass cupboard. I’ve teased her relentlessly about this cupboard. It has a glass-paned front, and everything inside of it is glasses. Every single type of drinking glass you can imagine is stocked inside Caitlin’s cupboards. Highball, champagne, red wine not only for Pinot, but also for Cabernet. She has three different kinds of white-wine glasses, some stemless, some with long, thin stems that I could snap in half with my fingers.
Her kitchen drinking cupboard is almost as well stocked as my bar, and I’ve more than once suggested she should get a job at Dirty’s, working with me as a sommelier, if she were to take a few classes to earn the registered title. It’d open up another specialized market, and I think it could be a great hit with the current popularity of wine. I’ve gone so far as to offer to pay for her to attend the courses and take the exams. Each time she’s looked at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Perhaps offering to pay and hire the woman you’re sleeping with isn’t the smoothest thing I’ve ever done.
She’s more than once declined, declaring I’d have to change the entire name of the bar.
We’ve spent hours discussing this before, scribbling down new names, and so far, the winner in my mind is still Dirty Drinks.
She thinks it reminds her of the time she was a kid and made mud pies.
I think it would up the male customer base tenfold.
“Where’d you go?” Caitlin asks, and this time it’s my turn to clear my head. She’s already filled both wineglasses, mine a stemless and hers with the dainty long stem. Her drink is at her lips.
I smirk, unable to help it. We’re friends, right? “I was wondering if you’ve given any more thought to becoming a sommelier.”
Her eyes flash, and she grins. Shaking her head, she says, “I think Dirty Martini’s is doing just fine without my contribution.”
She’s not wrong. Ever since I bought the place from the former owner and manager, I’ve been making a hefty profit. Still, one of the buildings next door might become available, and I like the idea of enlarging the space and expanding it to include wines from the most affordable to the kind reserved for elegant celebrations for people with the deepest pockets.
I drop it. Now’s not the time.
“I think we’re doing okay,” I say instead and gesture toward the living room. “Want to watch a movie?”
Her lips press together into a sly grin. Like she knows what I’m thinking, what I’m dreaming of, and like Caitlin, she doesn’t let it go.
> She curls into a corner of the couch, pulling a blanket over her bare feet. I take the chair next to it so I can see the television but also her. It’s safer than curling on the couch next to her like I really want to do. But I’m here for her friendship.
Acting like a friend is paramount.
“You’re seriously considering it, aren’t you?” she asks. On the coffee table, the remotes are forgotten and her cellphone is facedown.
Did she toss it there, frustrated after I sent her that message earlier? It was a risk for sure, but I want to be able to talk to her via that messaging app without the pressure of revealing who I am too soon.
“The bar?” I take a sip of my drink. Get control of yourself. “Honestly, yes. Someday I’d like to expand.”
“But you’ve built such a perfect niche with the martinis and local beers. Even your food plates are incredible.”
Pride alights in my chest. Knowing she’s proud of me, what I’ve done, what I’m building and working for is everything. My family didn’t come from a lot of money even if we had a lot of love. My dad worked for a factory his entire life, and my mom was a receptionist at a dental office. We were slammed right at middle class if not below. I took off right after high school, bound and determined to make my own way without wasting years going to college and ending up six figures deep in student loan debt.
Some might not think a loser with only a high school diploma has any business owning a restaurant, but I’ve worked my ass off to learn everything I can about the restaurant business hands-on, and not sitting in a lecture hall. Frankly, I think I’m better for it. There’s only so much book smarts can teach you, but life experience trumps it every time.
Still, Caitlin has never looked down at me even though I know she comes from a hugely financially successful family. And from the small amount she’s said about her family, it’s not as if they’ve given her anything meaningful.
She tucks the blanket tighter around her feet, and I fight a smile. Her feet are always ice cubes and yet she refuses to wear socks. I don’t call her on it, instead, I think of the plans I have sketched in my office. Piles of scrap and graph paper where I’ve doodled designs, either completely remodeling the space I currently have or what it would look like if I can expand into the space next door. Plus there are budgets and estimates on start-up costs, construction, salaries, as well as the potential for losses. Either option is a huge financial risk, but I’ve been saving away for this since before I took over Dirty’s. And now that I know the business next door is in trouble, the potential for my dream to become a reality is closer than ever.